Meaningful dream
by I'm Nova
Summary: Cat day. Aka, for me, John post-Reichenbach catlock dreamy angst.


_Disclaimer: nothing mine. A.N. Today's apparently Cat Day, at least in Europe. And that somehow from me means post-Reichenbach John angst…_

Meaningful dream

For once, John's not having a nightmare about Afghanistan – or the ones, even worse, that have begun since That Day about Sherlock…you know. (Don't make him say it. He knows, you know, Ella knows…every fucking body knows. Just don't make him admit it).

When he's fallen asleep, he's dreamt about waking up in that dreadful beige bedsit and for once has been so confused. Is he dreaming about going back in time? Or has he just had the most detailed, drawn-out nightmare of his life and Ella will have a field day analyzing it? Has Sherlock Holmes even existed, ever? (With that name, and that genius…maybe it's improbable. But would that be better for John? Or infinitely worse?)

Ella does not asks after the blog. Instead, she says, "Maybe it would be better if you got a pet. A creature that depended on you, and at the same time could make you smile. That could help."

John has heard of pet therapy, of course he has, and since he likes to pretend as if he follows doctor's orders at least, he goes to an animal shelter after the session. He thinks he's a dog type, but the clerk asks him about his job, and while John has none at the moment, he's a doctor, which will eventually mean probably long shifts at the hospital. "Dogs need lots of attention and care – they'll look up to you and want your guidance and company. Perhaps you could pick a cat. They're more independent, and will suffer less because of the loneliness."

The young man has a point, and John's led to the cat section of the shelter. Where a pudgy volunteer, looking very much like Mike Stamford (but apparently not recognizing him), holds a sleek black cat by the scruff of his neck and announces, "This one will have to be put down – he's here again, and he's a menace".

"NO!" the doctor yells, a sudden anguish he can not explain overwhelming him. "I'll…I'll take him," he adds, quieter and more sensible.

Stamford's lookalike has his same smug grin, when he asks, "You sure, mate? I've heard people bring him back here claiming he's the devil."

"I will," John replies, determined now, opening his arms and having the black cat turn on itself to bit not-Stamford until he's released to launch himself into John's waiting arms, where he starts promptly purring.

The next hours are a flurry of getting his new cat set home – which the cat contemplates with a clearly disgusted look. John can't blame him. His bedsit is awful. "Now, about your name. What do you want to be called, uh?" he asks.

No answer comes. The cat jumps on the table to start a staring contest with his owner, and that's when he notices how peculiar his pet's eyes are. They're not green, or blue, or grey, or gold, but somehow all of this at the same time. "Would you mind…Sherlock?" John asks, choked with emotion. He's not ever sure Sherlock is not a dream. Why has he to be broken over the man all the same?

The black cat meows loudly, which the doctor takes as an assent. "Don't leave me, will you?" he demands, petting the soft fur, and receives more purrs and the cat rubbing against his torso. "You have nine lives, of course you won't."

He receives then a message, at which the cat meows loudly in protest – is he jealous of his owner's attention shifting? – but that makes John very happy. It's James – Sholto – and he wants to meet that night.

'Why don't you come at mine? I've just got a cat, and I don't want to leave him alone until he's settled and I'm sure he won't throw himself off the window after a robin,' is the reply John sends.

"Gladly. But I wouldn't worry over that cat of yours taking the leap and falling. They always land on their feet, you know," Sholto replies.

John has just read that last text aloud when he wakes up with a stabbing pain at his heart. He's compared Sherlock to a cat so often – mostly because he'd ignore you when you needed help and then asked your attention when you were too knackered to give it. Why couldn't the detective land on his feet, too? (If he doesn't stop he'll end in Anderson's loonies little club. That's a theory. Sherlock survived because he was a cat. Oh my.)


End file.
